Twenty-Three
Striker drove.
They took the soft decline of Dunbar Street, heading south towards Kerrisdale. Traffic was heavy, the narrow roadway clotted from the rush-hour flow. Everyone was fighting to make their way home under the dark shroud of cloudbanks. Road conditions were poor. Striker felt the car slip on an oily patch of rain, and he eased off the gas.
No point in dying just yet.
‘We should be calling the Emergency Response Team.’ Felicia spoke the words with authority, and it was the fourth time she had said this to Striker.
‘And like I’ve told you, there’s no time for that. We call in ERT and this will turn into a six- or seven-hour standoff. You know how it is with those guys. Next thing you know we’ll have dogmen on scene, and Laroche will show up and call for a negotiator — and then we’ll have a real wait on our hands.’
Felicia rested her head against the window. ‘Fine. Your call, Jacob. But Laroche is gonna freak, and you know it.’
‘All the more reason to do it.’ When Felicia didn’t respond, Striker explained his reasoning. ‘Look, all we got on this Raymond Leung kid is circumstantial at best. Friendship and absenteeism. Nothing. We don’t have one bit of hard proof that Raymond Leung is involved in anything worse than skipping class.’
Felicia bit her lip. ‘Still, Laroche should know.’
‘Forget Laroche.’
‘I’m just saying-’
‘You’re always “just saying”. Haven’t you ever noticed how the guy never makes a decision? Not on anything? He just shows up for the news conference and reiterates decisions other people have made. Gets his fat face on TV and takes absolutely no responsibility for anything. Not ever.’
‘Can I finish a sentence?’
‘Who’s stopping you?’
‘You are, and you’d know that if you listened to yourself as much as you want other people to.’ She took in a deep breath, then continued, ‘All I’m saying is, yes, the man has flaws. We all do. But for some reason, you’ve got it in for him. You provoke him. Like you did back at the school.’
‘Back at the school?’
‘Yes.’
‘I provoked him?’
‘You were a bit harsh.’
‘He wanted my gun.’
‘He has a right to it, Jacob. A legal right. Hell, an obligation. And you challenged him on it, right in front of everyone. You gave him nowhere to go, no way out. Like you always do with anyone who so much as blocks your way.’
‘You saying I’m a bull in a China shop?’
‘More like a rampaging rhino.’ She let loose a soft laugh, then stopped talking for a moment, as if replaying the scene in her mind.
Striker held his tongue on this one. Because he had to. It was typical of Felicia to never leave anything be. She would just pick and pick and pick until there was nothing left. Sometimes, with her, it was better to let things go.
The light changed to green, and Striker drove south on Dunbar. When they crossed Forty-First Avenue, he reached down and made sure his gun was snug in its shoulder-holster. Just feeling the grip brought him a sense of calm. He gave Felicia a glance.
‘We’re getting close. Call for another unit — preferably plain-clothes. We’ll need them stationed out back in case this prick runs.’
Felicia got on her cell, called Dispatch, got a unit started up.
A few turns later, on Balsam Street, Striker killed the headlights and pulled over. The twilight was deepening, the dark sky purpling under the growing reaches of night and angry cloud. Striker stared through the darkness, thankful for the few streetlights that splattered the road.
Far down Balsam Street, at the end of the roundabout, stood a large, square, two-storey house. It was a modern special — made up of big dark windows and grey concrete walls — and front-lit only by the weak light of the streetlamps.
Striker pointed ahead to it. ‘That’s Quenton Wong’s residence, or at least where he’s listed as staying.’
‘What about Raymond Leung?’
‘Leung is an exchange student. Apparently, he lived with Quenton in his parents’ house.’ Striker shrugged. ‘That’s all I could get from Caroline.’
He pulled out his cell and called Information. After obtaining the telephone number for the residence, he called it, let the phone ring a dozen times, got no answer and hung up.
‘No one’s home,’ he said. ‘Or no one’s answering. No machine either.’
Felicia never took her eyes off the house. ‘No lights are on.’
‘Means nothing. God knows, if I was on the run, every light in the house would be off and I’d be as heavily armed as possible.’ He located the magazine release on his pistol, he pushed the button and slid out the mag, made sure it was topped up, then reloaded. He glanced down at Felicia’s chest, looking for a trauma plate bump.
‘You wearing?’
She rapped her knuckles over the centre of her chest, and it made a hard thunk! ‘Momma didn’t raise no fools.’
‘Good.’ Striker reached into the back seat and grabbed the shotgun. He racked it once, chambering a round, and gave Felicia a grave look.
‘Time for some people to face the Reaper.’
When backup was in place — all of them plainclothes units — Striker gave Felicia a nod and she drew her pistol. His palm felt wet, almost slippery now, and he tried to convince himself it was just the rain wetting his skin. But he knew better. And all at once, it felt like he was heading back into the cafeteria again to battle the three gunmen.
Tactically, the situation was a nightmare. Two cops with forty cals and one shotgun. They had no distraction or dark-light devices, just a couple of Maglites and the flashlights attached to their guns. On that note Felicia had been right. The Emergency Response Team could handle this takedown better, especially if machine guns and shotguns became the weapons of choice.
But ERT needed time, and that was the one luxury they couldn’t afford. As far as Striker was concerned, time didn’t even exist any more. Not in a normal state. Everything was just one big rush before the next shooting.
He snuck down the sidewalk, shotgun in hand. It was loaded with ten gauge — enough power to stop a black bear — and he rejoiced at the feel of the stock against his inner arm. It wasn’t just any old shotgun, it was a combat shotgun. Benelli. A tiny piece of lightning in his hands.
Without looking back, he asked Felicia, ‘You got me covered?’
She came up behind him and gave his shoulder a squeeze, indicating she was not only there, but on full alert. Striker readied the shotgun and moved forward.
Approaching the house from the front was bad tactics, even under the best of circumstances. To the west, the neighbour’s exterior lights were turned off, and Striker saw no motion detectors. He opted to use the yard as cover. As he led Felicia through it, straddling the fence and searching for dogs, the thought of booby traps filtered through his mind. IEDs — Improvised Explosive Devices — were common with these nut-jobs, starting back with the Columbine kids who had planned on blowing up the entire library.
Because of this, he stopped when they crested Que Wong’s backyard, he turned to face Felicia and whispered, ‘Eyes up for IEDs. Wires. Bottles. Containers — whatever. High and low. Watch every step.’
She nodded. Her face was blank, and her dark eyes were steady, determined. As much as a part of him begrudged her this ability to turn her emotions to ice, he also loved it. She was a rock in the field, always standing
